I ACCEPT: a compliation of challange responses
by MatoakaWilde
Summary: This is where I post one-shots that I have written for challenges. Oneshot 1: Ron/Fleur/Hermoine, Oneshot 2: Regulus/Bellatrix, Oneshot 3: James Potter
1. RonFleur Forbidden Flower

_A/N--This was written for 'The Unsailed Ships' collection of stories Frayed Misfit is putting together for the 'Character Sketches' profile, which you should check out as soon as you finish reading this._

* * *

**FORBIDDEN FLOWER**

**BY MATOAKA WILDE**

* * *

He strained to keep his eyes open as the night progressed into early morning. The muscles around them ached and his eyelids kept fluttering, fighting to override his will to remain awake.

Hermione lay beside him, completely knocked out. It had been a long day. The baby had begun crying at 5:30 AM; the whole family had been up at 6. They'd showered, dressed, packed overnight bags, then Rose's diaper had needed changing, then she needed to eat, and did anyone leave food out for Crookshanks?

Next they'd all gotten into the car, the fuel had been low, they had to stop for some, then they'd driven to Hermione's parent's where they'd had lunch and awkward conversation, Rose's diaper had needed changing again, they'd exchanged gifts, said good-byes, got back in car, driven back home, and the baby hadn't stop crying, so then her diaper had to be changed again, and before they could floo to Harry and Ginny's, Hermione had said she needed to 'fix her hair'.

Ron had to get the bags with their pajamas and tomorrow's clothes together, Hermione had to give Rose a bath, then they had to floo to Harry and Ginny's. They'd visited, had cocktails at Ginny's insistence, and hadn't watched the clock, so then they were all late for the Burrow.

Once at the Burrow they'd all said hello to everyone so no one voice could be made out over the other. Ron then had made his way through clusters of people to reach his mum and dad in order to give them a hug. His mum had seemed really distracted, and almost hadn't noticed him. Then he'd started at least ten unfinished conversations, stepped outside for some air, reflected upon his life, and went back inside for Christmas dinner.

At dinner he'd watched George drink too much wine, Ginny and Hermione laugh at inside jokes, Bill struggle with conversation with mum, James throw up on Harry's shirt, and Percy and Audrey tell everyone boring stories about finding the perfect flat in London. Then dinner was over.

Next they'd all sat around the tree and listened to annoying Christmas music, had eggnog and cookies, opened presents, and then Ron had looked around and wondered, _Where's George?_

When all the presents had been opened the group had dispersed. Children begun to get sleepy; Ron and Harry had had a personal conversation about their, wives, children, and jobs. Ron had tried to talk to George, but George had only mumbled incoherent replies and stared off into space, next Ron had gone to Charlie and asked him how things were going, but he hadn't listened to Charlie's reply. Then he'd said good-bye to Harry and Ginny and everyone else who wasn't staying the night.

After all who were going to leave had left, and the Burrow had become a bit quieter, Ron had watched his mum cry while she washed the dishes, Fleur at her side, helping her and comforting her. He'd stared at Fleur's arse, her hair; he'd wondered what it would be like to have sex with her.

Then Hermione had walked up to him, told him to come to bed, that Rose was fast asleep. He'd put on his pyjamas and brushed his teeth. Then he'd laid in bed and kissed Hermione, touched her arse. But she'd pulled away, said she was tired, and fell asleep almost immediately. So Ron had just stared at her sleep, then he turned around and stared at Rose sleep. Then he fell asleep.

It had been a peaceful sleep, free of the anxiety of nightmares or dreams. It was a velvety black sleep that he'd been ripped out of by the hysterical crying of his daughter, Rose.

Before he'd 'officially' woke up, he'd waited for Hermione to take care of the crying baby—with no such luck. She remained as deep in sleep as ever. So Ron had gotten up and held Rose, rocking her back and forth, whispering to her dirty jokes and lullabies.

Eventually she'd stopped crying, but hadn't shown any signs of going back to sleep. She'd stared at Ron through the bars of her crib. How could he sleep with her staring at him like that? But he'd been so tired…

Ron's eyes had fallen closed for a moment.

"Gah! Ahhh!" Rose had said smiling.

Ron's eyes had shot open. "Won't let me get a bit of sleep tonight, will you?" Ron had looked at his gurgling daughter with a weary grin. "You think it's funny torturing your ole dad?"

Her mouth opened up, but instead of words, the only thing that had left her lips had been a spit bubble. Ron had laughed. He'd been tired. Anything could be amusing.

Rose had stood up in her crib, her chubby legs barely holding her, her hands grabbing onto the bars.

"Do you want to come out?" Ron had asked Rose, then imitating Percy, adding, "Take a walk about the grounds perhaps?"

"Eeeiii!" Rose replied gaily.

"Why not?" Ron had said to no one in particular. He'd known he wouldn't be going to sleep if he stayed there anyway. But maybe he could get Rose to sleep.

He'd picked her up and she'd went willingly into his arms.

First they'd visited the garden. Ron had told Rose about all the times he'd been sent out there to de-gnome it with his siblings. He'd walked around the yard describing how it had looked on the day of Bill and Fleur's wedding. While he'd babbled away to Rose he'd begun to think about how beautiful Fleur looked that day.

Rose had rested her head on Ron's shoulder. He'd pushed her knitted cap down on her head, trying to make it fit more snugly. It had been cold outside. Hermione would've been screaming if she known he was wondering around the yard with Rose in the middle of the night.

As he'd walked back into the house with Rose asleep in his arms, he'd noticed snow begin to fall.

Inside he'd been greeted by warmth and familiar smells. He would've been able to fall asleep right there, standing up. He'd planned to go straight to bed—no questions asked. But there'd been a light on in the kitchen. Maybe someone had forgotten about it. He'd gone to darken the room. When he'd reached the doorframe he'd seen Fleur.

She'd been sitting at the table, a mug of tea between her hands. Ron hadn't consider not going to see her. He'd rested Rose on the couch and had gone back to the kitchen door, continuing to stare at Fleur, whose head had been down. He hadn't though she knew he was there. He'd stared at her, consumed by lust.

Fleur finally raised her head. No surprise shows had shown on her face when she saw him.

"'Ave a zeat." She'd said, motioning to one of the chairs.

He'd sat in the one closest to her. From this intimate distance he'd seen the sadness in her face. She hadn't been crying, but she'd looked troubled, depressed. Before he'd been been able to ask her why she'd said:

"Bill es angry with me." Her voice low, "'Eh sayz I do not care about your family…but et es not true!" She'd rubbed her eyes with her hand. She'd seemed frustrated. "Just because I rather go to France for once…" she stopped again, staring into her milky tea. Avoiding Ron's gaze.

His eyes had never left her. She continued:

"I told 'im, et es zad 'ere at Christmas, other times I assured were not, but not at the time of Christmas...I told 'im I 'ated coming." Fleur sounded incredibly guilty. She'd looked at Ron, as if waiting for him to yell at her.

"I know what you mean." He'd said. She'd blinked at the unanticipated remark. Ron had went on, "It's a hard time of year for mum. Sometimes I think she still expects Fred to—"

It had been difficult for Ron to finish the sentence, because part of him hadn't wanted to think about what he'd found himself saying. After a pause he'd said, "She hasn't accepted Fred is gone, forever. She still knits him—and George he just sulks, drinks—dad pretends—"

He'd been too angry, too upset to elaborate any further. His throat had closed. He'd thought he might cry.

Then he'd felt a cool sensation greet his hand. Fleur had put her own hand atop his. She'd looked at him with eyes that craved comfort as much as his own must've.

"Sometimes I don't think it will ever get better." Ron had said to Fleur before he'd felt her lips cover his own.

As soon as the first kiss had ended another had begun. Ron hadn't thought about what he was doing, he'd just done it. He'd felt her breasts beneath her worn jumper; she'd placed her hands by his ears, stroking the back of his head. At that moment nothing had seemed to matter. Everything had seems dismal, beyond hope. _At least I can have this kiss,_ Ron had thought.

He'd felt Fleur's tongue against his own. Their kisses had become longer, deeper, hungrier.

Then suddenly it had been over.

They'd looked at each other with shame and embarrassment. Both had regret about what they'd just done. They'd wanted to pretend it had never happened. Their eyes had locked in agreement; they would do just that.

Fleur had left Ron sitting in the kitchen. He'd still been tired, and somehow is he supposed to go back and sleep next to Hermione.

_She will know,_ he'd chanted in his head, _She will know._

But when he had eventually decided to return to bed, Rose in tow, Hermione had still been asleep. And when he'd crawled back into bed, blankets covering him, Hermione had turned over in her sleep, unconsciously snuggling up to him.

He'd thought about how beautiful her face is, how delicate her lips are, how he'd always counted on her, needed her, loved her.

Before he'd closed his eyes he'd taken one of her hands in his and had whispered, "I'm sorry."


	2. BellatrixRegulus The Warrior and Prince

_This was written in response to the Review's Lounge Valentine's Day Challenge. The story had to contain a box of chocolates and I chose to do the pairing Bellatrix/Regulus._

_Beware, this story has THEMES that some people may regard as MATURE. Reader digression is advised._

* * *

**The Warrior and Her Prince**

By MatoakaWilde

_Dear Mother,_

_I miss home very much. This school is freezing and I am very uncomfortable. I must hunt down house elves just to get extra blankets! And worse yet, some mudblood Hufflepuff has taken to fancying me, and I ASSURE_ _you I have repeatedly made it clear that I want NOTHING to do with her and her filthy lot. But she is quite stupid and continues to harass me in the hallways—even after I hexed her! Anyway, as you know next weekend is Valentine's Day, and I fear she might be just so bold as to do something really terrible and embarrass me in front of the entire school. Maybe send me a singing telegram or put love potion in my pumpkin juice. What I'm saying mother is that you must help me! I CANNOT be on school grounds this weekend. I might end up using an Unforgivable! Help me! I MUST come home next weekend._

_Love, your son,_

_ Regulus_

* * *

_My Poor Darling,_

_Of course I will protect you from that DISGUSTING girl. I will send an owl to the Headmaster straight away and explain this most unfortunate situation. I must say I am very proud of how you are handling this. If only your wretched ex-cousin who must not be named had possessed the sensibility you do. I am relieved I have raised at least ONE son to take pride in his blood. I will send Kreacher to fetch you after your classes next Friday. For the House of Black must be protected!_

_Sincerely,_

_ Your Mother_

_P.S. Which hex did you use? Perhaps next time you should do something a bit more devastating to the bitch. She must realize she can NEVER have you._

Regulus reread his mother's reply for the seventh time as he waited for Kreacher in the Slytherin common room. He didn't know when the house elf would show up, only that it would be sometime after five. Presently it was four forty-six. Regulus hoped nothing would spoil his plan.

In reality, there were no girls lusting after him. There was not a Hufflepuff mudblood stalking him. He had made it all up. The only truth his letter had held was that occasionally he _did_ suffer through the odd chilly night—apart from that though, pure fiction.

Really the letter he'd sent was part of a greater scheme then just fooling his mother into making the Headmaster let him go home for a weekend. His main goal was not actually to go _home _at all, but to see Bellatrix.

--Oi! What're you doing, sitting there with that bag?

One of the Slytherin prefects came over to Regulus from across the room. The prefect nudged Regulus' bag with his foot. It fell over. Regulus picked it up and held it in his lap.

--I'm leaving for the weekend. I've got permission from the Headmaster.

Regulus produced a piece of parchment from his pocket. The prefect seemed uninterested in the note.

--Let me see what's in your bag.

--Why.

Regulus _hated_ prefects—Gryffindor and Slytherin ones alike. They all acted the same, like giant arrogant self-important ministry officials. And this _particular_ prefect had a _particular _bone to pick with Regulus. Just the week prior Regulus had made a house elf sing a love poem to one of the first year Slytherin boys. And Regulus had made sure the house elf would tell the poor first year just who'd sent him to sing: the prefect.

It had been _hilarious_. He'd gotten detention with Slughorn, but it had been worth it.

--I SAID, let me see what's in your bag!

The prefect snatched the bag from Regulus and began pulling stuff out; socks, a shirt, underwear, then he stopped. He held a box of chocolates in his hand. The box was olive green and bordered in silver. It was in the shape of a heart. The prefect chuckled to himself.

--What's this now? Was this received or is it to be given?

Regulus' brows slanted.

--Give it back Rosier.

--Let me guess, it's for James Potter. He's quite popular, isn't he? You would never guess what I caught two of our very own first year girls doing in the Gryffindor locker-room.

--I could care less. And it's not for _anyone_. My mum sent them to me.

--You're mum's your Valentine? Should've guessed. I mean, I know your family likes to keep it _pure_, but—

--_STUPEFY!_

Red light shot out at Rosier and the prefect fell to the ground, unmoving.

Regulus didn't care how many detentions he would get or how many House points he would loose. No one was allowed to say such things about his mother or his family.

He heard a loud cracking pop. He turned his head. The family house elf Kreacher stood behind him. Regulus grinned. He'd come to feel something like love toward the elf that he'd known his whole life. Regulus didn't really have any 'best' friends, and he figured Kreacher was really the only one qualified for such a title, though he'd never told anyone this.

--Fantastic! Kreacher, you've arrived just in time.

Kreacher bowed his head.

--No Master Regulus, you are mistaken! Kreacher is thirty-two seconds late from when he had planned to arrive. He tired to come sooner, but Master Regulus' bed needed fresh linens.

Regulus laughed at the house elf's seriousness.

--No matter Kreacher. We must be going though. I don't want to be here when they find out about _that_.

Regulus pointed to the unconscious prefect who still clutched the box of chocolates in his hand.

--Of course Young Master! Let me gather your things!

Regulus dumped his bag into Kreacher's arms and watched the house elf gather the clothes Rosier had tossed onto the floor.

--Oh and Kreacher, will you get that green box right there? It's mine and I would be very sad not to have it.

--Certainly Master! I would love to!

The little house elf eagerly crouched down to the stupefied prefect. Kreacher's small gray fingers delicately pried the box out of the prefect's grasp and tucked it underneath his arm. The elf then held out his free hand, which Regulus readily grabbed hold of.

With a loud crack, they were gone.

* * *

_Another Valentine's Day alone_, Bellatrix mused to herself as she washed down a mouthful of chocolate covered shortbread with fire whiskey and tea—a drink she had developed a taste for. 

Rodolphus, for one reason or another, always seemed to be away on February 14th. Work, the Dark Lord, and other such obligations always came first. Bellatrix didn't mind though, he always made up for it. Earlier that day an owl had delivered a box of bakery and a dirty letter he'd written describing all the things he would do to her when he got back. She had laughed for hours. Rodolphus could be so silly sometimes.

As she finished her tea she looked out of the window at the hazy sky. A mixture of rain and not quite snow was starting to fall. During the night it would all freeze into ice. She was glad she was not expected to be anywhere. Though there was a downside to sitting around the house with nowhere to go and nothing to do. She was _bored_.

She sighed. It seemed like a good a time as any to check to see if she had _finally_ gotten pregnant.

Since their second year of marriage, she and Rodolphus had tried to conceive a child, failing repeatedly. She blamed him. He blamed her. About once a month they would fight.

Having a child was something she was beginning to obsess over. Not only did she feel it was her _duty_ to prolong the great House of Black, but everywhere she went she felt herself surrounded by more and more mudblood scum. She felt she had an _obligation_ to fight such a trend.

She went to a small cupboard and lifted out a large metal case. She put the case on the table and opened it. Inside was a miscellaneous assortment of things; miniature bottles, empty and full vials, strange little silver tools, and compartments with different potions ingredients.

She took out one of the empty vials, over which she held the tip of a one of her fingers. Using the sharp end of one of the silver tools, she pricked her fingertip. A small dot of blood slowly made its way to the surface. With her thumbnail she pressed onto the minuscule wound, collecting the blood she milked into the vile.

Only a few drops were needed. In no time at all she pointed her wand at her finger, healing it instantly.

With the vial of blood now procured she looked through the metal case once more and removed from it a little glass bottle. It was made of iridescent purple glass and on the label was the face of a happy baby.

Carefully Bellatrix poured a small measured amount of the bottle's contents into the vial. The bottle's liquid was clear, but when it hit the blood both the liquid and the blood began to rapidly change color. Red to green to brown to yellow. Bellatrix watched it impatiently, swirling the mixture in hopes of agitating to react faster. The color finally settled on a pleasant powdery white, and ceased to change.

Bellatrix screamed and threw the vial, which shattered upon the stone-tiled floor.

The result had obviously not been the desired one.

Tears of rage swam in her eyes. She let out more screams; each filled with more emotion then the last. Her howls sounded like that of a wild beast. She continued to scream and cry as she began to destroy anything that happened to be around her. She threw her empty teacup against the wall and then threw the box of Valentine's biscuits Rodolphus had sent into the air, aimed her wand at them, and made them explode.

Then she fell to the floor, and covered her face with her hands. She took a ragged breath.

There was a knock at the door.

* * *

The plan had come to him months ago on a November night, just after he'd finished masturbating. 

On Valentine's Day he would tell Bellatrix, in person, how he felt about her. If he had to sneak out of school to do so he would. He would show up on her doorstep, preferably with a gift of some kind, and profess his love (in his fantasy Rodolphus was always inexplicitly absent).

He would tell her that she was the only one he loved, the only one he could _ever _love. That he didn't care if she _was_ ten years older, or if she _was _married or if she _was _his cousin. She would be so moved by his pledge of allegiance that she would have no choice but love him back. Then they could begin a secret affair. Rent rooms together. That sort of thing.

It all seemed terribly romantic to him, and the more time that passed the more energy he put into thinking about it.

Now almost three months later, there he was, standing in front of Bellatrix's door. Without thinking about it any longer, knocked. Immediately he regretted it. He felt his heart drumming within his chest.

There was no response. He had never considered that she might not be even home when he came calling. He felt sick to his stomach. He knocked again. She _had _to be here. No answer. He knocked again. No answer. He knocked again. He felt desperate.

Before he could knock again the door opened.

Bellatrix stood before him.

He thought he might faint.

* * *

She hadn't bothered to clean up any of the mess she'd made, and as she sat staring curiously at her young cousin, she fiddled with a piece of broken teacup. Regulus glanced about at the rubbish strewn throughout the normally meticulous room. 

--Is this ah, um, a bad time?

Bellatrix smiled, _what he must be thinking!_ Surprisingly she did not feel ashamed about the mess. On the contrary. She found the situation quite amusing.

--No. Not at all. Why do you ask?

Regulus blushed.

--Er, no reason.

They sat in silence a moment longer. Bellatrix made no move to offer him anything to eat or drink. She just sat looking at the young boy, barely fifteen. Some said that Sirius was the more handsome brother, but she did not agree, and not just because she despised Sirius and his treacherous behavior. No, Regulus was the more appetizing of the two, with his round face, high check bones, and thick black hair, Bellatrix had always fancied him a male version of herself.

--So why are you here again? Bellatrix asked matter-of-factly. She had never understood the necessity of manners.

Regulus looked slightly bewildered. He just stared at her. She wondered if the boy was all right. She was about to ask again when he practically shouted,

--I LOVE YOU!

Bellatrix regarded the boy will a peculiar look, slightly confused.

--Yes…I suppose I love you as well little cousin. After all, we are family.

Regulus began to get a bit red in the face.

_What in the world is going on? I wonder if he has been poisoned. Too bad I'm all out of bezoars, _Bellatrix thought, _he better not drop dead on my floor. I will have none of that._

Then Regulus got out of his seat and walked up to her, presenting her with a green heart-shaped box from inside the bag he carried. Bellatrix took it, smirking.

--What's this?

--Read the card.

Sure enough a little envelope was stuck to the back of the box. Bellatrix ripped it open. Inside was a plain ivory card.

_Dearest Bellatrix,_

_Your eyes are nothing like the sun. Coral is much redder than your lips. If snow is white, then your breasts are dun. If hairs are wires, black wires grow on your head. I have seen red and white roses, but I see no roses in your cheeks, and perfume smells much better than your breath. I love to hear you speak, though your voice doesn't sounds as beautiful as music. And yet I think you are wonderful and rare, without compare._

_With the love of a thousand stars, _

_Regulus_

Bellatrix finished reading the note and at once began giggling with delight, which soon escalated into hysterical laughter. Regulus mistook her pleasure for mockery. His face went pure scarlet.

--You don't have to laugh… He managed to mumble.

She looked at him and laughed even harder, tears leaking from her eyes.

--Fine. I get it…Okay? I'm just going to go. I'll let myself out.

Regulus started to shuffle out of the room, his head down, defeated.

--No! Please. Don't go! Bellatrix managed to choke out between giggles.

Regulus turned around and looked at her, all hope gone from his face.

--Why? So you can laugh at me some more?

_He sounds so pathetic, _she thought, before collecting herself, trying to calm down.

--No. Not so I can laugh at you.

Regulus gave her a brief little half-smile and hesitantly returned to his seat.

--So, you think you love me? Bellatrix asked smiling.

--I know I do. I love no one but you.

His serious tone almost reignited her hysteria. She stifled it, thought barely.

--What's in this box then?

--Chocolates. I selected them all myself at—

--_Incendio_!

--Hey!

The box burst into flames. Ashes sprinkled down into Bellatrix's lap.

--It's a rule I have. Never eat anything given to you by an obsessive maniac—it could very well spiked with something. Box of Chocolates, Valentine's Day? So very basic. Slughorn's just taught you how to brew amortentia, has he?

--I am not an obsessive maniac.

--Of course you're not darling.

--And I don't even know how to brew a swelling solution, let alone amorentia…

--Is that so?

--YES IT IS! Regulus roared angrily.

Bellatrix smiled. The boy was handsome, _cute _really. Bellatrix actually _did _feel slightly flattered that he felt so strongly about her.

--So back to my initial question, which you never sufficiently answered, why are you here? She paused, then added, What do you hope to accomplish?

She re-crossed her legs and while eyeing him, dropping the piece of porcelain she had been playing with to the floor.

--I, I, er, I just wanted to…tell you how I felt. I mean um…it's Valentine's Day?

_Oh the poor boy, he is really quite sad_, she thought, _what am I to do with him?_

She continued looking at him, and he out the window. Aside from his determined silliness, he _did _remind her a lot of herself. The way he sat, how his hair looked in the light...and she too remembered getting dismal marks in potions. To Bellatrix his most attractive quality was the fact that he appeared so similar to her.

Suddenly a thought occurred to her.

She left her seat and moved to the small settee that Regulus occupied. Without stalling she pressed her lips to his, giving him a long serious kiss, which he readily gave into.

If Rodolphus couldn't get her pregnant perhaps her handsome cousin _could_.

* * *

Regulus thought that a great error had occurred when Bellatrix leaned forward and kissed him. _She must have fallen or something_, he thought. Was she really _kissing _him? 

But he could taste her mouth, her spit wet his lips, and she wasn't pulling away. When the kiss ended Bellatrix gently caressed his face, making his skin erupt into goosepimples.

--What are you doing?

A stupid thing to ask, he knew, but he just couldn't juxtapose what was happening now to what had transpired earlier.

--Making your visit worthwhile.

She kissed his ear, then whispered into it,

--Rewarding your efforts.

Then she kissed his neck, and it felt so good he could scarcely stand it. But something fought in his mind to be said.

--Do you love me?

Bellatrix looked up at him. She seemed mildly surprised. She smiled at him and said looking straight into his eyes,

--With the love of a thousand stars.

Regulus almost couldn't take it, he had to hold himself back, it was all so much. He felt like he was in the middle of one of his fantasies.

Bellatrix took his hand and stood up. Instinctively he stood as well.

--Come now; let us go someplace more…comfortable.

She walked towards her bedroom. He followed willingly.

* * *

Regulus lay on the bed staring up at Bellatrix's face with longing and doubt. His dark brown eyes tried to penetrate hers, but she gave nothing away. Her face beamed down at him like a Cheshire cat's. 

--I've never done, er, uh…

Bellatrix sat atop his waist, straddling him. Regulus isn't wearing a shirt and neither is she. All she wore were her knickers, which are anything but modest. As she unzipped his trousers she began to kiss his chest.

--Don't worry my little Prince, she purred, I'm here to…_help_.

After she freed Regulus from the confines of his underwear her mouth briefly lingered between his legs before she lowered her lips. A noise escaped Regulus that sounded like he was choking.

--Bella—

She looked up, normally she _hated_ when people called her that, but they way Regulus said it touched something within her.

--Yes?

--I…I love you.

And she wasn't completely lying when she said,

--I love you too.

* * *

When it was over Regulus watched Bellatrix lay on her side, her head turned away from him. He was afraid to touch her. He didn't want to ruin anything. He savored the moment, failing to intellectualize any of it. 

Then he remembered something. He leaned over the bed and reached into the pocket of his discarded trousers.

--I almost forgot. He said cautiously, I…I got this for you.

Bellatrix turned around. She was handed a thin silver band. She inspected it.

--Look on the inside.

She did. Engraved in neat lettering was: '_To Bella—I love thee, Ab imo pectore, Ad infinitum, I love thee.'_

Bellatrix didn't say anything.

--What, er, what, do you like it? What do you think?

Bellatrix fidgeted with the ring, but didn't put it on. A sharp pain struck her and she felt overwhelmed by an unfamiliar feeling.

--I think you should go back to school.

He looked at her with perplexity. She barely returned his eye contact. And when he didn't make any move to get up she suddenly became very angry.

--Don't you have some _homework _to do? An essay on the uses of unicorn hair or something?

--What? Why are you so angry?

--I'm angry because I've been a good hostess and now I'm asking you to _leave _and you _won't_.

--A good _hostess_?

--Yes. I entertained you so now you can go.

--_Entertained_ me?

--What are you, a parrot?

--No.

--Rodolphus will be back soon, she lied. Go on, get!

As Regulus dressed Bellatrix stared at the wall opposite him and gazed into a mirror at her reflection. She lost track of time. Before he left she heard him call a 'good-bye' in the most pathetically polite way, so much so it nauseated her.

When she heard the front door gently close she gave the silver ring one last look before violently flinging it out of the room. She couldn't bear being near it. She kept her eyes locked on her reflection and began to scream until her throat hurt.

* * *

Three weeks later Rodolphus is on his way to bed when something catches the light and sparkles in his eye. He kneels down onto the oriental hallway rug and begins searching for what he just barely saw. 

_What's this? _He thinks as he finds the ring. He hears Bellatrix calling to him, _I'm coming_, he says.

He looks more closely at the ring, trying to remember if he recognizes it. He is just about to shrug it off and pocket it when he notices some lettering on the inside of the band.

He reads it.

He knows it's not from him.

He gets angry. Furious.

What has been going on in this house when he's away?

Bellatrix calls to him again. He says nothing, but goes to her.

He keeps asking, but she won't say where the ring came from, or who gave it to her.

They have a fight. A really_ bad _fight.

This time Bellatrix does _not_ win.

The next day she has a miscarriage.

She tries her best never to talk to Regulus again. Even when they both become Death Eaters she will go out of her way to ignore him.

He will never find out why.

* * *

A/N: '_Ab imo pectore, Ad infinitum' 'From the bottom of my chest/heart, without limit/to infinity'_

Also Regulus' love letter was adapted from Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 (My Mistress' Eyes are Nothing Like the Sun). I figured what could scream 'Valentine's Day' more then a little plagiarism provided by ole Willy S.

Oh and story took place in Regulus' fourth year, I made him have an early birthday so he'd turn 15 while still being a 4th year. Yes, that means a 15 and 24/25 year old hooked up. It turned out quite unfortunate for both of them, don't you think?


	3. James Potter A Pig in Mud

A/N: my contribution to the Review's Lounge Birthday challenge.

**A PIG IN MUD**

_(James Potter)_

**By MatoakaWilde**

The year James Potter was born spring came early. Pungent floral fumes dominated the senses and forbade winter access another day. The sun beat powerfully upon the land and its inhabitants so that none who ventured out in the bright heat stayed dry for long.

His mum remembered those early days well. She had awaited motherhood for so long that when it had finally come, she felt as if in some past life she had already been the mother to her little dark haired son. Without need of pictures, single scents of sweat honeysuckle or musky lilac could bring back to her memories more realized than any photograph. Afternoons would return to her, of sunning her new baby on a paisley patterned blanket and speaking to him in a singsong voice, "Do you like this flower? Can you hear that bird?"

In the lifetimes of both Mrs. Potter and her son, no other spring would ever be as bright and bold as that one had been. All proceeding springs would play out dully, regardless of the drenching rains or the sunny days. The elements would try to produce a result as supreme as the year James had been born, but they would always come up short. Every birthday James would look from a window, either from his home or his school, and see the waterlogged March landscape and wish that he had been born in the summer, then he would look around at the world on his birthday and be greeted by warmth. Though James had parents who loved him and friends who adored him, so despite the inhospitality of the weather James had always felt warm.

On his birthday no one would forget that the day was a day for James. He was given affection, cards, and presents. People wished him happy birthday who he'd only talked to but once in a while. No one else but James had his or her birthday on this day. Even if they had been born in the same twenty-four hour period he had been it was unrecognizable the public when under the shadow of James. His presence was domineering and pervasive, much like the fragrant lilac bushes that had stood at either side of the front door of the house that James had been carried into on his second day of life, his little pink body in a little white blanket.

His early birthdays he had celebrated while still climbing the single digits were not terribly personal affairs. The house had always been filled with guests with gifts, well dressed with a glasses of punch in their hands, beaming at him with their aged faces, wishing him a "Happy Birthday!" James had enjoyed the pats and the compliments, deriving a satisfaction from them just as he did from the fudge cake and butter-cream frosted biscuits. For most of his youth was spent around those much older than him, people who would constantly admire him from every angle and tell him so. James would not have real friends to spend his birthday with until he was bit older.

Close with both his parents, but especially with his mother, he would frequently tag along with her whenever she would go, as there had been no other candidates competing to be his playmate. Frequently James would follow her into her garden, which she kept tastefully manicured yet not too segregated. Each plant was always placed in the earth only after thoughtful consideration. James would watch his mother with a proud and fascinated eye as she worked among the flora, her hands in the soil. After he'd grown older, no longer trotting about on the ground, but gliding through the air on his broom, he'd not forget to look down at her from his perch and marvel at her ability to orchestrate such a paradise.

Sometimes he would be pulled into more than watching and his mother would had him a spade and tell him where to dig. Because of his James had soon discovered he hated gardening. His holes were never deep enough and his plants always stuck lopsided out of the ground. He would complain that he couldn't do it and his mother would say, "Oh but James you can, you just mustn't be so impatient."

"But I'm not!" James would insist while burying an unsuspecting beetle in a hole meant for a gladiolus. "The flower is the one not being good!"

Because for the life of him James hadn't been able to garden, constantly finding himself at odds with the daises and the daffodils, his admiration for his mother's art had only grown. Also growing had been the garden, expanding in small increments every year. Its beauty never failed, age only brought it more splendors. James would pretend he wasn't sensitive to this but it was pure posture.

On the eve of his eleventh birthday, the last one he would spend at home (for come fall he would begin his school career) James discovered one the secrets of his mother's garden. He had seen her in the dusky damp twilight kneeling between ivied arbors. She'd had her wand in her hand, which she'd gracefully flick sending glittering yellow sparkles onto the area below.

"What are you doing out so late mum?" James had asked. "The sun's almost down."

"Only a last minute planting I'd almost forgot."

Her voice had sounded fragile in the night air, like quivering ice. James had wondered if perhaps old Ms. Bagshot down the road had died or if he'd missed another such event that would so trouble his mother.

"All right mum?" He'd walked closer but not too close, afraid that some small frightening detail would appear.

"I'm fine dear. Are you looking forward to your birthday party tomorrow?"

"Yep, I'll finally be eleven! That means I'll get my Hogwarts letter, right?"

"Not until the summer dear."

"Yeah. Too bad."

A silence had embarked upon them, signaling a feeling of uneasiness for James. He and his parents were rarely quiet towards one another. James had always been eager to entertain them and they always to praise his efforts.

"What flower's that?" James had said to fight the disquiet.

"They're pansies." His mother had answered, settling one into its bed. "You know James, every year around your birthday I plant a patch of flowers for you. It started when I first brought you home from the hospital. People sent flowers, cards of congratulations. Every plant I was given that week I planted in this garden. Most of them are still here even. And each year I add something, a flower, a shrub, during the anniversary of that week. It is a secret way I celebrate."

James listened to his mum, mystified that he hadn't already known this one thing about her.

"Will you still do it when I'm at school?"

"I imagine so, it will still be your birthday won't it?"

And this had reassured James, who at ten on the verge of eleven, did not consider his birthday ever ceasing to hold great importance. For he looked forward to getting older, collecting the years, associating himself with different numbers. James had believed in his birthdays more than he had in the alternative.

But what ten-year-old is expected to anticipate death?

Soon his eleventh birthday had come and gone and summer had boiled away spring. After what had seemed like years to him and days to his mother, James had been packed onto a train, sending him to be planted in a school that would help grow him into a man. Each summer when James would come home and leave again bits of his boyishness would wilt and fall off and age would emerge.

While time forgives the young it shows cruelty to the old, and Mr. and Mrs. Potter, who'd had James after most would've already long given up on children, grew weak and fragile as their son grew strong. By James' 19th birthday his father was gone, taken by an illness that was not sorry for the empty chair at James' birthday dinner. It had been a somber meal but James had still known he was being celebrated. His best friends from school had all been there, and so had the girl who in a few months time would be his wife. His mother had lit the birthday candles and everybody had told him that he was loved.

After his mother had died he was still not afraid of being unloved or of loosing his importance. In bed he was never alone. His wife had always been there, picking up where his mother left off, stroking his hair and whispering to soothe his anxious mind, "Everything will be all right angel, you'll see at your birthday next year."

Though this hadn't become true because birthdays aren't guaranteed as the James of ten had believed them to be. Birthdays aren't celebrated because they are written in stone.

The year after James Potter was killed spring came late. Rain and hail beat against his headstone and ice-cold water seeped into his coffin. The sky remained pearl grey and flowers were unwilling to bloom. Sadness overcame many; eyes did not remain dry for long.

"'_That corpse you planted last year in your garden,_

_'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?_

_'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?"_

_--T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land_


End file.
